Reawakened
by Sanbika1397
Summary: Learning her mother's fatal secret and ending her own life, Kumiko is revived as a partial kami in the Naruto world by a Shinto priest. She is now unable to die, which she needs to complete her mission, a life-altering mission, that now determines whether she lives or dies. Obtaining a second chance in life, Kumiko will do whatever it takes to start anew. OCxNeji OCx?


The sharp, continual beating of the half-frozen rain stung the pale teenage girl's skin, although she herself did not mind. The fall weather in Yokohama, Japan had been acting sporadic for the past few weeks; sometimes it rained, and other times, there wasn't a cloud in the sky to be seen for miles. However, the skies seemed as if they were crying the tears that should have been shed by the young lady herself.

The humidity of the thick, almost suffocating, air made her black, naturally wavy hair just a smidge more frizzy than it usually was. Her bangs mostly covered her forehead, but a few strands strayed from their natural path and lay in front of her face, reaching about half of inch below her straight, slightly knit together eyebrows.

She dabbed at her small, pink, button nose with her bow-printed handkerchief. Both corners of her delicate mouth tightened, dreading the drama that was most definitely awaiting her; ever since her father disappeared, the tension between her and her mother had increased significantly.

"I'm home, mom. . . I bought groceries as well. . ." She gently closed the dingy apartment door gently, using the same caution when putting down her bags to take off her damp black leather shoes.

The vulgar conditions of the apartment did not match the temperament or the clothes she was wearing; after years of hard work, she was now in her second year of high school at the prestigious Uedo Private Academy for Girls. The school uniform included a red tartan skirt that reached her mid thigh, a light, dusty yellow Oxford shirt, a matching tartan bow, a black, sleeveless vest with the school crest prominent on the left hand side, and black socks that reached just above the knee.

"Kumiko." Her mother appeared seemingly out of nowhere, glaring at her over the rim of the glass of cheap scotch that she always drank. "You're late."

Kumiko raised her round face so that she could get a better look at her mother, their similarly thin eyes meeting for a brief second before Kumiko looked away. She batted her thick black lashes repeatedly at the distasteful wooden flooring, intimidated.

Kumiko slipped on her pink slippers and held up her grocery bag. "I was shopping for food. . . Like you asked."

Her mother, with dirty bleached blonde hair, slowly made her way over to her petite daughter, her similarly thin hips swayed while one hand firmly gripped the rim of her beloved drink. She peeked inside the bag, scoffed, and walked off.

Seeing that as her cue to start dinner, Kumiko quickly made her way into their kitchen and set the bag full of groceries on the counter, making her way to her bedroom once she was done. She placed her clean, black leather bag onto her perfectly made bed, turning to her left to fish something out of her desk drawer. Her room, compared to the rest of the house, was impeccably clean; she wanted to keep at least some part of her life intact from when they were a happy family of four.

She gingerly gripped the polished, silver knob of the top drawer and pulled, revealing the back view of a picture frame. She grasped the frame in both hands and flipped it over, revealing the once smiling faces of her family. Her mother, with black hair, smiled while being embraced by her beloved father, the only one in the entire family that ever showed her any human love and compassion. She had inherited her round face and wavy but frizzy hair from her father, and she was proud of it.

Kumiko herself was positioned next to her father, gripping one of his arms in delight. Her older brother, Akio, stiffly stuck close to their mother, obviously not comfortable. From the beginning, her mother favored Akio. No matter what he did, their mother was always proud of him, never giving Kumiko so much as a second glance.

"Kumiko! I'm waiting!" Said teenager quickly but carefully placed the frame back inside her drawer, making sure to close it all the way before trotting out to the kitchen to fix dinner.

Her mother was waiting for her when she entered the kitchen, a new glass of scotch freshly poured. "Sorry. . ." Kumiko maneuvered around her mother to gain access to the bag of groceries.

Her mother watched her as she did her thing, occasionally taking a sip from the dirty, cloudy glassware.

An hour later, Kumiko set the finished meal in front of the alcoholic, grabbing her own small bowl of curry. Kumiko ate the portions of a child, which kept her thin. They both sat across from one another, but Kumiko did not once look into her mother's faded eyes.

"Why didn't you pick me up any scotch?"

Kumiko gently placed her spoon down on the table. "I don't have an ID, mom."

Buzzed, he mom scoffed once more and set down her glass. "Excuses. Why can't you be a good child like your brother?"

Kumiko's expressionless eyes swept over their cheap plastic dining room table, secretly angry. Akio's only been away for two months, but he's still her number one priority. Her father, on the other hand, has been missing for one hundred and eight days. Not gone away someplace, but missing.

Kumiko slightly bows to excuse herself from her dinner and vulgar parent. "I'm still talking to you!"

She joins her child by the dirty silver kitchen sink, drink in hand. Her breath smells like a rancid mixture of tobacco, hard liquor, and curry. Looking her over, she pours yet another glass and takes a swig.

"You're just so weak and gullible. . . Just like your father was."

Kumiko stopped wiping the bowl she was cleaning and looked at the counter space nearby. "What. . .?"

Kumiko's parent chugged the rest of her drink and tried to uncross her eyes as best as she could. "He's gone. G. O. N. E. Gone."

The teenager gripped the bowl with her slender fingers and mumbled. "He's coming back. . ."

Slamming her glass on the counter, her mother slurs her words and unsteadily leans on the counter. This was typical of her; after two drinks, she was already intoxicated.

With a disgruntled laugh, the alcoholic spoke the phrase that answered all of Kumiko's questions- the source of her deepest despair and melancholy.

Kumiko's dark brown, troubled eyes widened to at least three times their width in complete disbelief.

Cockily, her mother sways from side to side, forming words with her mouth. Alas, Kumiko could hear nothing. As if her ears were plugged, the various background noises in the apartment were dulled by the sound of rushing water muffling her hearing; it was getting louder by the minute. About seven minutes passed, but to Kumiko, it seems as if only seven seconds had gone to pass.

The flash of the glassware's reflection before it hit the corner of the sink caught her attention, which shattered a part of the rim. Luckily, Kumiko stepped back in due time, missing the miscellaneous shards of glass that erupted from the impact.

Kumiko felt her blood pressure escalate, a feeling that she very rarely gets. She felt her eyes glide over the countertop, looking for something to help ease the urge that was gnawing at her mind, contradicting her typical psyche.

Of course, her mother saw through her silent endeavors, grabbing the nearby sharpened kitchen knife and sliding it on the counter, away from the two of them.

Her mother frowned deeply and started to walk towards Kumiko, mouth still forming unheard words. Although her mother was merely a depressed, lonely woman of forty-three, the psychological damage she constantly instilled on her daughter made her appear much more intimidating than she actually was.

Each time she took an unsteady step forward, Kumiko took a tentative step back. Her eye darted from side to side, trying to find something to hold her off; Kumiko now knew what exactly what that woman was capable of.

Kumiko quickly pulled on one of the squeaky kitchen drawer knobs, keeping her eyes glued to her enemy whilst searching in the drawer with one hand. Her long fingers closed on a skinny, cylindrical object and grabbed hold of it immediately. She slammed the drawer shut, holding the meat thermometer like a weapon with both hands.

* * *

She repeatedly attempted to rub off the liquid with both hands, belting out short and stifled shrieks of misery. Banging her head against the side of the kitchen counter, she sat on the grungy floor of her home, thin legs draped to her left side. Incapable of producing anything except painful sobs and an occasional choking noise, which erupted from her throat in terrifying repeats.

Her breathing was unnaturally ragged as she dragged herself over to the cabinet under the sink, where the cleaning supplies were. She desperately reached out to random chemical bottles, or whatever she could get her hands on. One by one, they toppled onto the floor, each with their own muffled thud. Grabbing the can of spray cleaner, she stared pathetically at the mess she made, scared for her life.

Trying to gather the physical strength to move, her struggle was in vain; her body would not budge. She clutched the canister in both hands, resting the nozzle on her forehead while she shook. Just as quickly as she gripped the bottle, a certain solution formulated in her mind that instantly ceased her shaking.

Holding the nozzle up to her lips, she parts them only a half inch, the unpleasant taste of the chemicals permeating her taste buds. With a lung-emptying exhale, she then presses down the button on the top of the plastic spray can while taking as deep a breath as she could. Once more she repeated this process, but then she stopped. Her throat and tongue were painstakingly numb, and she could barely keep her head up. Determined, she attempts to set down the can gently, but the can nonetheless rolled out of her hand. With as much haste as she could bring forth in her euphoric state, she uncaps most of the bottles spread out in front of her and begins the last and final binge of her life on Earth.

* * *

The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was shining directly on her, slightly skewing her vision. If she squinted hard enough or turned her head to the side, she could see that, oddly enough, she was facing the sky.

"Am I falling from heaven?" Kumiko looked at her flailing limbs and hair, slightly entranced by the mere feeling of falling from the sky.

After a few seconds, Kumiko turned her head so that she was looking beneath her, fixing her dead, shaded eyes onto what she thought was Hell.

But it wasn't.

Her eyes widened, but it was too late; her body hit the cold, hard ground full force. She heard and felt the pain of each and every one of the appalling snaps of her bones as she hit the grassy, yet dense, terrain. But, strangely enough, she felt more alive than ever before.


End file.
